Scenes From Paris: C'est la Vie

Just another cliché American in Paris, living an ordinary night in my adopted city. Or was it?

Last Thursday night, I made a carrot, pear, and ginger soup. I even went to my local market to get an onion and ginger for the soup. Then I ate the soup, sent some e-mails and let my eyes flutter to a close while reading Almost French by Sarah Turnball. Just another cliché American in Paris, living an ordinary night in my adopted city.

Or was it?

On Friday, I went to yoga and reheated the soup for lunch. I even picked up une demi baguette from my local boulangerie that's still open, baking bread and fielding lines out the door. Just another ordinary day in my adopted city.

Or was it?

It's hard to explain to those not here how we're all feeling or "what it's like" in the aftermath of last Wednesday's terrorist attack on the offices of Charlie Hebdo. Surely it's different for everyone. Parisian, Expat. Jew, Muslim. Parent, single. Mourner, observer. Journalist, baker.

On one hand, life seems to be continuing on.

The "soldes" have begun and shops are open and proclaiming their discounts emphatically. So, maybe you go in a boutique and try on a scarf you're looking to match the new coat you bought at Galeries Lafayette.

KB coffee shop, on the corner of Rue des Martyrs, where you often go to write, is still open and brewing their $5 filter coffee for Americans like myself who crave it. So maybe you go in and order a cuppa with one of their insanely delicious coconut cookies.

The carousels in the mini squares are still blinking their lights and playing "It's a Small World," so maybe you stop to smile at the child waving to her mother who let her go for a joy ride on an unusually warm day in January.

The movie theaters are still selling tickets, so maybe you buy one to see Unbroken—or Invincible as it's called here—and tick off seeing another Oscar-contender by supporting another great form of expression.

But thenyou arrive at the Gaumont cinema near Opera to find it taped off, surrounded by police with machine guns.

What happened? you ask in your best French, your heart suddenly in your stomach. You're told there was a bomb scare and the theater's fermé—closed.

And that's when you realize that while the song has seemingly remained the same here in Paris, and the sun still rises at 8:39 A.M. and sets again at 5:16 P.M., something has changed. There's a shiver of concern. You overhear it in phone calls, even in a language that's foreign to you, and in the ambulance sirens that make you wonder, "What now?" You see it on faces and by looking in the windows of those boutiques and coffee shops and theaters. A single, emphatic statement—"Je Suis Charlie."

You are reminded that something has happened here. Something is different. Something has made us pause. The question is: Now what?

The siege of concern from abroad via emails and texts and Facebook messages only add to the quandary, however lovely and kindhearted they're meant to be. Do they know something you don't? As far as you can see, the streets aren't on fire so it's hard to know how to respond. Would they feel better if you said you remain holed up inside your apartment in the 9th arrondissement? That you were nowhere near the market where the terrorists took, and killed, hostages? You weren't, but would it matter? The odds of getting struck by a car while WhatsApp-ing and walking are probably greater than being at the wrong place at the wrong time and you, ashamedly, do that all the time.

And yet, for some people last week, those odds were far less great.

The fact is, we must have perspective. As a friend from Los Angeles, who texted out of concern wrote: "It's like when there's an earthquake in San Francisco and people ask if I'm OK. It's like, 'Yoooo, that shit's like 340 miles away.'"

To be fair, all the uproar and action here in Paris was a bit closer than 340 miles. A lot closer, actually. But when we're told to "Stay safe" or "Take caution," how, exactly, do we do that? There is no way to prepare for something like this. None of the journalists working at Charlie Hebdo knew they would never see their families again when they went to work on Wednesday morning. Sure, the nature of their job was a bit precarious, but it was just another ordinary day for each of them.

To fight back—to honor them and all the fallen from any terrorist attack—we must continue on with our own ordinary days. We can light candles and hang signs and march together in solidarity, but in the midst, we must not be afraid to live. We must make our soup and practice yoga and shop for scarves and drink hot coffee and see movies and ride those carousels.

Perhaps since the terrorists were caught, we can do so with a bit more ease. Or maybe not, and we've all just been reminded once again, and ever so sadly, c'est la vie.

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